“He dreams of a place far away from here, it doesn’t matter where. He wants the sky to be clearly visible, and he wants it to be sunny as much as possible. He imagines the warmth of the sun upon his skin, he imagines the fresh air – perhaps touched with the scent of the sea, and the peace that is his at last…

The window shatters where the rock strikes, spider webbing cracks racing across the few panes that manage to stay in place. Three nearby sheep, their free wandering a common sight in Hutton le Hole, startle from the noise and run off. The stone thrown after them is less precise than the one which targeted the window, and clatters behind the last’s hooves harmlessly. The boy who threw it frowns, as if he’s truly disappointed that he missed. He scans the ground for another fist-sized rock, moving towards the back of the empty cottage and finding his quarry. It’s not an abandoned home, nor a summer getaway for some Londoner, it’s a rental place for the avid, foreign tourist who comes to see the lovely village. There’s nothing in particular about it that earns the boy’s ire, but the following rock that smashes through another window suggests otherwise.

It’s a quaint cottage, two storeys, made of brick. The roof is a red slate that contrasts pleasantly with the washed out honey of the exterior. The lawn around it is a vibrant green, and what the boy did see when he peeked inside before the assault suggests the property is well cared for. It looks like a perfect family home, a place to make good memories.

He bristles and seeks another rock, spots one in the corner by some fly orchids and goes to fetch it. He bends over to grab it, reels his hand back, pauses and turns around suddenly to see the man approaching from behind him. The boy is always on guard, always listening, always prepared to slink out of sight.

“You best put that down, kid,” the man insists, his accent suggesting he’s American, or used to be. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

The boy narrows his eyes, even scoffs at the idea that this stranger knows what trouble actually is. Instead of dropping the stone, he hurls it at the man. He hears a curse as the man lifts his arms to block his face, but then he’s already running. There’s a vindictive triumph in his step as he takes off, it feels good to be on the other end of things for a change.

It feels good that his behavior won’t be reported to his parents too. They’ve made it very clear that if anything should happen as it did in Epping and force them to relocate, he’ll pay for it dearly. He doesn’t doubt it. So he runs all the way out of the village and heads north. Rosedale Abbey is about an hour and a half’s walk from Hutton le Hole, he won’t be back before sundown, but it’s not like he’ll be particularly missed anyway. Beyond the village’s perimeter, he slows to a trot then a walk, glancing back now and then but seeing no signs of the man who confronted him. He’s halfway home when panic grips him. He will be missed tonight.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

His lungs are burning by the time he gets through the rotting tavern door, and his legs are quivering slightly from overuse. There’s no customers, which is usual, and unusual as finances are the one thing that pits his parents against each other rather than him. There’s nothing inviting about this place, tucked away on the outskirts of Rosedale Abbey. The floors are warped and sticky, the few tables patrons could sit at are dirty, the shelves meant to carry fine stock nearly empty. Upstairs is where the bedrooms are, although they aren’t really bedrooms. His parents sleep in the loft that at one time was probably used to host private parties. The boy sleeps in what was likely a storage space, with room only for his bed and a plastic bin for his more favored articles of clothing. Those being shirts and pants that somewhat fit him, the hand-me-downs from his uncle will never sit quite right on him, he’s small even for his age. The rest of his stuff, which isn’t much, is stuffed in boxes in the tavern’s pantry by the kitchen.

He can’t even slip into the pantry to retrieve his necessary item for tonight, and at least show some semblance of respect before his tardiness can be addressed, because both his mother Ines and father Charles are behind the bar, the thick copy of Magicks & Alchemy they consult so often opened before them, while his uncle James is leaning over from the wobbly stool on the other side of the bar. All three of them wear dark leather coats bearing a faded relief of a crude crown on the back.

“Did you forget what night it is?” his mother hisses. Her wrinkled face is twisted, pale eyes sharp as glass and crimson lips lifted in a snarl.

“I’m sorry,” the boy replies automatically.

“Your sorry is shite,” Charles spits.

“Get ready,” Ines snaps.

The boy hurries off towards the pantry to grab his own coat bearing the same sigil. He takes his time in retrieving it, however, listening intently to the budding argument between his mother and uncle.

“No, this isn’t it, you fool,” Ines says impatiently. “Look, won’t you? Charles, your brother’s a fucking idiot.”

“Oi, careful now missus, I’m the one busting me arse out there lookin’ for this thing.”

“This thing!” Ines repeats him derisively.

“Show some bloody respect,” Charles adds waspishly.

By now, the boy knows he cannot wait any longer and comes back to the main tavern. Now he sees the item that’s set by the book, it is in the shape of a pyramid, but evidently not the one his parents are currently obsessed with. Whatever gives them power…it’s one thing that the boy is thankful for, that for all their insistence of being a powerful witch and warlock, his parents never show any sort of aptitude for their trade. They jump from artifact to relic to spellbook, so sure that the next one will help them achieve their goals.

Only this time, they seem more sure than ever before that the relic depicted in Magicks & Alchemy is what they seek.

“Our devotion and sacrifice will bring us to victory. We will honor the Nathir, and thus be rewarded!” Ines exclaims.

“So you keep saying,” the boy mutters.

He doesn’t mean it in jest, but he wishes he could pretend he did given his mother’s horrific glare. “You,” she seems to choke on her rage before she rasps, “How dare you question!”

“Don’t you talk to your mother that way, whelp! I’ll whip you raw!” Charles barks.

He feels the echoes of past blows, of being told to bend over before he feels the sting of a folded belt against his backside for his ‘impertinence.’ Afterwards they’ll ask him why he makes them do these things and his mother will stroke his hair and kiss the top of his head, making him question everything again.

“If we’re done with the bloody drama, I’ll go get our guest of honor, eh?” James asks with a sneer.

He leaves towards the cellar door, the cool space meant for the storage of alcohol that became a private prison instead.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"Tonight, we gather here at the moors," Ines Bishop spoke with a reverence befitting a church, pale eyes fixated on something only she could see, thin lips quivering in anticipation.

"To the rustic moon, the sign of the King," Charles Bishop continues. "We pay tribute to the liberation…"

"A release from bondage," James Bishop adds. "A tribute of blood."

The desolate darkness turns what should be a pleasant backdrop of rolling moors into a nightmarish hellscape. The thin grass whistles in the wind, the distant trees sigh and moan, and the moon bears down on them and looks touched by blood, a great angry eye hungry for the promise being made by the trio. The boy does not partake, he watches, with the understanding that upon his thirteenth birthday he will be expected to participate directly. His uncle will teach him how to choose the sacrifice, his parents will teach him how to make the necessary cuts.

He watches his father and mother lift their knives, sees the sharp glare cast from the moon, and still tries to turn away from the writhing mass set on the natural stone slab jutting from the earth. As always, his uncle hits the back of his head – a reminder to bear witness, and the boy must see the grotesque ritual to its completion. They chant to their unknown king, the Nathir, they gift the life force of their sacrifice to it, they plea for it to come, a tangible awakening that will change the world. The boy thinks they’re crazy. He wants to interrupt them to tell them such; they’re just a pair of insane murderers, they will never succeed. As with every ritual night, he feels the words crawl up his throat, and as ever, they never make it past his lips. It ends with both daggers plunging into the victim’s heart, lifting the blades wet with blood. Ines holds hers out to Charles as he holds his to her, they kiss the bloody knives and whisper their final offering to the Nathir.

As always, nothing profound happens. There’s a stillness to the moors, like it holds its breath, then the grass continues to wheeze and whistle, the trees to groan and sigh, the foliage to creak and twist in the wind. Charles and Ines will call it a success anyway, and head back to the tavern while James and the boy dispose of the body. He doesn’t know exactly how his uncle hides them, he only helps him drag the corpse to the general area James chooses as a grave that night.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

He returns to Hutton le Hole the next week, scowling threateningly to the boys his age who snicker at his oversized and darned clothes. Maybe he’s learned how to harness his mother’s piercing look, or maybe it’s the red of his cheek that suggests he’s no stranger to physicality that has the other boys shy away without confrontation. He almost wishes they escalated things; his breath still comes shallow and fast, his eyes periodically sting with tears, and his cheek throbs where his mother hit him. She usually lashes out with words, but that morning he mentions thinking it could be good for him to go to London with Uncle James, under the pretense of wanting to help, but she must sense his greater desire to disappear in the congested city.

“I didn’t scrape you out of me when I wanted to,” she hissed after the harsh strike. “And I didn’t smother you when you’d cry and cry at night, or when I learned the complications of your birth meant I couldn’t have anymore. If I could, maybe the next one would have appreciated everything sacrificed for him!”

She’s just angry, she’ll calm down.

She doesn’t come after him though, but then…he didn’t really think she would.

For once, the boy is not on guard or aware of his surroundings, so when he hears the click! of a phone camera it catches him by surprise. He looks up sharply to see the man from the cottage last week, pointing a mobile at the boy. There’s a fading bruise on the man’s broad forehead from where the stone hit him.

“You can run again if you want,” the man says. “But if you do, I’ll go to the police with this,” he indicates the phone, “and I don’t really want to have to do that.”

“Then what do you want?” the boy demands, trying to channel father and uncle’s brusque manner.

The man lifts a brow. “Help repair what you broke,” he says. “C’mon, it’s the quickest way to settle the debt.”

The boy almost refuses, but thinks about the warning from his parents again. When he got into a fight with a classmate in Epping, the level of his aggression for what was a trivial matter was enough for his teacher to call in Charles and Ines, who spent the better part of an hour coming up with a story to explain the boy’s behavior. It’s not just the fight, the teacher insisted, it’s his grades and attendance too. The boy pays for that revelation, his parents didn’t know he skipped class, but during the meeting they explain that away too. It’s obvious Ms Emmerson doesn’t really believe everything, however, and his parents know it. So, they move to Rosedale Abbey and the boy is home schooled from then on. His parents rarely teach him the fundamentals, they provide books and he reads with an avid need to learn…hoping it’ll help him someday.

Maybe this will help him too, the boy knows nothing of labor outside of hauling corpses.

“My name is Elijah Stone, by the way,” the man says as they walk through Hutton to return to the cottage.

The boy grunts a response.

“You live ‘round here?” Stone asks.

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He shrugs, and is grateful Stone doesn’t press him on the matter. He’s not used to having secrets, his parents are set against the idea.

“I’m here on and off,” Stone continues amiably. “I’m mostly out in Texas now, by way of Rhode Island, got a small ranch out there, living the quintessential cowboy dream I never grew out of. Livvy, that’s my younger sister, she lives here in England full time with her husband. If he wasn’t such a great guy, I’d hold a grudge for getting my sister off coffee and onto tea.”

“Ha ha,” the boy says wryly, aiming to offend. “She like crumpets too then?”

“Matter of fact she does,” Stone replies easily. “Do you?”

Another shrug and by now they reach the cottage. The boys sees a lot of the work is already done. The windows he broke are now just open squares, and it looks like Stone has installed new insulation and leveled out the opening, judging by the chipped wood scattered nearby.

“Think you can handle caulking the opening?” Stone asks.

“Uh…”

“I’ll show you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you messing up the place more than you already have. This airbnb keeps me able to fly back and forth as much as I do.”

The boy isn’t moved by the answer and only shrugs again. Stone looks at him and the boy notices his gaze lingers on the red mark still glaringly obvious against his cheek. The rings his mother wears are heavy.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Fine,” the boy replies. “Just show me the stupid caulk.”

Stone leads him into the cottage, but he leaves the door open as if expecting the boy may need a quick getaway…which may be true. Being inside is worse than looking in. It’s clean, the furniture looks comfortable, positioned in a way to encourage conversations and quality time. Stone doesn’t let the boy linger, he brings him to the first broken window, where a replacement frame awaits, surrounded by various tools. Stone takes the caulk gun and hands it to the boy before he indicates where he’s to bead the sticky substance in preparation for installing the frame.

“So,” the boy begins after they’ve been working for thirty minutes in near silence, save for Stone’s pointers and instructions, “were you just lurking about town waiting for me to show up again?”

“No,” Stone laughs. “I went to town for a lunch break and saw you on my way out. Hey, that’s some good work though, kid,” he adds after inspecting the shims the boy inserted to level the frame.

“Thanks,” it’s strange to hear a genuine compliment without a caveat attached. Another beat of silence passes before the boy gives Stone his name.

“I’m glad this time meeting you is more pleasant than the first,” Stone says. He asks the boy about his interests, and the boy is embarrassed to face the fact he has few. He tells Stone he likes to read, that he reads all the classics he can get his hands on; something about the ‘stiff language’ resonates with him, like it separates all the characters from the events of the story, which is how he tries to live his own life. He doesn’t talk about the last bit with Stone, however, he doesn’t want to risk getting himself into trouble.

When both the windows are done, Stone smiles in a satisfied sort of way. “I love this kinda work. You see the problem in front of you and you get to solve it right away, seeing every step of progress and controlling it all with your own hands.”

“It is nice,” the boy admits.

“Well tell you what, I’m going to replace some of the roof next weekend. You get a hankering for more learning, you can come over and help me. Heck, I’ll even pay you.”

“No,” the boys say. “Uh, about paying. It’s fine, I’ll see if I can make it.” His parents will find anything he earns, they’ll take it, they’ll find a way to exploit Elijah Stone and bleed him dry.

And as the weeks go by, the boy wants less and less for any sort of badness to find Elijah. Given how careful James must be in selecting sacrifices, it’s not uncommon to go months between rituals, something the boy’s always grateful for. Now more than ever, as his parents seem happy to have him out of sight which gives him more opportunities to come to Hutton le Hole. He finds solace here, he doesn’t feel like he’s two seconds from reeling out of control when he’s helping Stone out with renovations, or else just talking with him. He realizes there is something better than what he has.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

This continues for a long while, and the boy knows what it’s like to feel happiness without question. Elijah continues to teach him practical skills, he’s a skilled handyman and generous in sharing his knowledge. The boy knows he sees signs of unrest when he isn’t careful, such as wearing a t-shirt when his wrist is bruised where his father grabbed him too hard, so he learns to be more careful. He wears clothes to hide any marks, he tries his best to teach himself how to smile no matter what, because he does not want anything to change. He wants no reason to disturb the balance, where darkness may cling in Rosedale Abbey, he can recover from it in the light that is Hutton le Hole.

Elijah asks about his family, his parents, and the boy says they’re having financial difficulties that causes tension, but otherwise they’re loving. He makes up all the scenarios he wished he shared with his mother, father and uncle. He convinces himself there’s still a chance those dreams can happen. Elijah must believe him, because he doesn’t continue to ask, although there’s an underlying concern from him that the boy tries to dissuade with warm smiles and no mention of any unrest.

It is something that could not have lasted, no matter how much he wishes it could. His thirteenth birthday comes around, and there’s no cake or celebration, there is only the malevolent gleam of his parents’ eyes when they tell him now he can truly make them proud. Now he may participate, and pay tribute to the Nathir. He’s been dreading this day, but the wave of nausea, anger and panic it inspires still takes him by surprise for their intensity, so that he loses that ability he’s been relying on so readily; to hide the bad so he can keep the good.

“I won’t,” he growls. “I won’t do it!”

“You would betray your family?” Ines shrieks.

“Fucking coward! You will do your part!” Charles roars.

“I-I won’t! I’ll go to the police!”

“Oh aye? The police?” Charles sneers. “You can tell ‘em where you dragged all the bodies in that case, boy!”

“If you try to drag us down, we’ll pull you along you ungrateful little bastard!”

“You won’t! I’ll tell them you made me! You did make me!”

Charles releases a loud noise, halfway between a curse and a shout as he lunges towards the boy. He smashes his fist across his son's face in a harsh backhand. The boy lets out a sound of pain and surprise as he falls to his rear, hand pressing to a swelling bump on his jaw as he scrambles backwards from his father. Charles is relentless in his pursuit, heaving the boy to his feet by the hair and striking about his head and face.

“Disrespectful cur! How fucking dare you!”

The boy raises his hands in a feeble attempt to defend himself. This only seems to anger Charles further and he seizes the boy by the neck, hard enough to make him choke, and drags him to the cellar door. There’s no victim down there now, James has yet to bring one, and Charles heaves open the door and throws his son down the stone steps.

He lies on the cold stone floor, wincing and crying, cradling a wrist that is surely sprained if not broken from his tumble down the stairs. It’s nearly pitch black in the cellar, and smells of old ale and waste from victims left locked away here until the time of the rustic moon. The boy remains on the floor, eyes cast to the sliver of light that shows beneath the locked door and waits, thinking he will be free soon.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It’s not soon. They roll bottles of water down the stairs on occasion, but no food. His stomach is an empty knot, twisting and writhing in on itself. He’s so weak, he can barely move. When the door opens, he asks for forgiveness until his voice gives out. The fear that gripped him at the start isn’t as strong. He’s afraid of dying when hunger first seizes him in its relentless talons, by now he doesn’t have the energy to be afraid. It may even be a good thing…if he should drift away.

Just when he thinks they truly intend to let him die down here they offer salvation. His father comes down the steps and lifts his son in his arms to carry him upstairs. A warm bath is waiting, the filth and grime of so many days, weeks…months? needs to be washed away. His father helps him, because the broken boy is so weak there’s danger he’ll slip under the water and drown. He feels his ribs beneath the washcloth, jutting out. He’s scared of what his face might look like.

When he finishes cleaning, his father helps him into a robe and to the main part of the tavern. A plate of hot food waits at a recently cleaned table, with his mother sitting there and waiting. The boy’s mouth waters, and he knows the serving is too small but dares not say so, fearing a return to the cellar if he does. He eats with ravenous gusto, while his mother coos and says there’s more but he needs to take it slowly. They saved him, and that is all he can think about that night. They saved him from the dark.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It’s another three months before James returns with a victim. The woman is forced into the cellar, the door locks, and the boy finds himself staring at it more than he’d ever done before. Because now he knows, he knows what it’s like in the dark…and he wants to protest, he wants to tell them to let the woman go, but he doesn’t, because he can’t bear the thought of being down there again. Three days left until they’ll be under the light of the moon, only this time…the boy will be taking the place of his father.

He goes to Hutton le Hole in the meantime, and reconnects with Elijah. To the question of where he’s been, he tells Elijah his family has come into some money and they were on vacation. By now, the gauntness of his time in the cellar is not so extreme, leaving him too thin but not so much to cause immediate concern. Elijah insists he eats a big lunch anyway, while he works on installing a garden fence at the cottage where they met. It reminds the boy that there is normalcy in the world, and while the thought brings comfort it also brings anger. He wants it, that normalcy, he wants it desperately.

He leaves Elijah after lunch, and wanders on the outskirts of Hutton, scowling at tourists and sheep alike. He feels something building in him, and it feels destructive, it feels like the surge that struck him in Epping, when he hurt that other boy in a fight. Hutton is meant to be separate from that, so he takes his leave before it can be tainted by the dark. His pace is slow, this time he’s sure he isn’t needed at home. Two days left before the knife will be in his hand. He can’t, but if he doesn’t…he’ll be locked away again. He shudders as he tops a rise in the moors that surround Rosedale Abbey. From here he can see the dilapidated tavern he calls home, tucked away in the shadow of another hill. From here, he can see the shambling shape rushing up to meet him.

The boy starts when it clings to him and he looks into the wild eyes of the woman from the cellar.

“Help me, help me!” she wheezes.

He stares in muted horror as she cries, willing himself to do something, make a decision, anything more than stare at her. “I…” he trails off, reaches for her hand with the idea of leading her back to Hutton le Hole when another set of footsteps interrupts the groaning of the wind.

“Oi you dodgy cunt!” James exclaims when he comes upon them. The woman screams and brushes past the boy, but James is upon her and clamping a hand over her mouth while his arm circles her vice-like to lift her from her feet. The boy’s uncle rounds on him angrily. “Useless shit, keep an eye out here to see if anyone’s coming.”

The boy watches as James hauls the struggling woman back towards the tavern. His heart races, sweat trails down his spine and panic wells up in his chest. He’s shivering, feeling like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin when he turns and runs. If doesn’t know if James saw him, likely not, hopefully not, please don’t let him have seen…but if he has or hasn’t, it doesn’t stop the boy from running all the way back to his sanctuary. There’s only one light on in the little cottage, where Elijah’s staying as he continues renovations through the summer. The boy knows this because they spoke about it on one of those normal days.

He pounds at the door until he hears Elijah’s voice telling him to ‘hold his horses’ before the door opens. “What’s going on?” he asks, taking one look at the boy’s face and stepping back to let him inside.

And the boy tells him everything except what’s important. He talks about how mean his parents are, and he keeps convincing himself he needs to tell Elijah about the woman, the rituals, the murders, but he can’t bring himself to go that far, to condemn his family entirely. But he talks about the belt, the beatings, the time he wasn’t on vacation but was being punished for talking back. He doesn’t say he was locked away, or starved nearly to death, but then he doesn’t have to. Elijah fills in the blanks and his normally happy expression turns to something angry and cold.

“Bring me to them,” he says.

“No! No, they might hurt you!” the boy cries.

“No they won’t, and they won’t hurt you again either.”

They get into his car and the boy quivers with the need to tell Elijah don’t, because he doesn’t know what he’s getting involved in. But Elijah won’t be deterred, and he asks the boy if he wants to go away with him, that he can help him, and the boy thinks of his dream of a place far away, with an open view of the sky and long, sunny days. He nods and feels sick anyway.

The boy doesn’t leave the vehicle when Elijah stops it in front of the tavern. He wants to, but Elijah tells him he shouldn’t. So he peers out the window, his shallow breaths leaving steam against the glass as Elijah knocks at the door. It opens to Ines and Charles, the boy thinks James must be securing the woman in the cellar still. He can’t hear what’s being said between the three adults, he just sees the angry gestures from Elijah, the livid rage in his mother’s face and the intimidating glare of his father. He sees them look towards the car, at him, and he knows that if they get their hands on him he may not survive it this time. To his surprise, however, Elijah says one final word, and both his parents nod. Elijah turns his back on them and comes to the car. The boy waits for retaliation from his parents, but it doesn’t come, they just look at him and the smile that curls his mother’s lips terrifies him more than any shouting could have.

They drive south with no incidents, Elijah stops only for gas and some fast food during the 10 hour drive to York, to his sister’s place of residence. Before they leave the vehicle, Elijah twists in his seat to look fully at the boy.

“I don’t want to just decide for you, I can’t morally let you go back to those people,” he says. “I can start an adoption process, it’ll take a while, and I don’t know all the alternatives if you say no, but I promise I will find each and every one if this isn’t what you want.”

He doesn’t, not in that second, because he’s still expecting his parents to swoop in out of the shadows with murder on their minds. Then he thinks of all the normal days he had with Elijah, the happiness he was allowed to feel without thinking he’d owe something for it. He nods, swallows, then speaks. “Okay.””

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“It took six months to go through the whole adoption process,” I say heavily as I conclude the tale of the broken boy. “I got to know his sister quite well during that time, and her husband, they were all such good people…”

“Were?” Riley asks in a quiet voice.

“When I was fifteen, I moved to the United States with Elijah. He sold his ranch in Texas, we went to his home in Rhode Island. He died about half a year after my sixteenth birthday. I later learned that his sister and her husband also died around the same time. I know my parents are involved somehow, only I never figured out how, there was no definitive cause. I was still a minor, so I ended up in the system.”

“Fuck,” Riley whispers. “And your parents didn’t try and claim you again?”

“No, and as far as everyone was concerned, my name was Henry Stone…My name is Henry Stone.”